


the thin red line

by Vennat



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Angst, Blood and Injury, Gen, Hurt Lance (Voltron), Hurt No Comfort, Insecure Lance (Voltron), Lance (Voltron) Angst, Self-Esteem Issues, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-12
Updated: 2020-09-12
Packaged: 2021-03-07 02:26:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 790
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26419459
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vennat/pseuds/Vennat
Summary: Lance works through his issues in an incredibly unhealthy way.
Comments: 4
Kudos: 63





	the thin red line

**Author's Note:**

> this is just... sort of me projecting onto lance. im.not having a good time rn so... sorry, lance. please heed the tags!

Lance runs his hand down his front, smoothing his shirt against his stomach. He pulls his jeans up by the belt loops, trying to make them sit more comfortably on his itching hips. 

Lance paces his room, once, twice. Thinks of the laughter during training as he falls, again, tripping over the terrain. He runs his hand across the top of his dresser, indifferent to the dust gathering beneath his finger tips. 

He steps back, until the backs of his knees bump into the edge of his mattress, and flops backwards. Something pokes him in the back, and when he digs it out it's his tiny little music player that Pidge had given to him, earbuds wrapped around it. He untangles them with stiff fingers, shoving them into his ears and hitting play on the first song that comes up. 

Something upbeat and poppy, which would hype him up any other day, shudders through the tiny speakers. He shoots upward, frenetic energy tingling under his skin. 

One, two, three steps across his tiny room into his even tinier bathroom. He shucks his pants in a quick motion, leaving them a puddle on the ground as he steps toward the shower. His shirt is next, but halfway through it becomes tangled with his earbuds.

He struggles for a moment to take the shirt off and keep the earbuds in, before irritation rises up, choking him. He rips the shirt from his head, earbuds going painfully from his ears with it. With a grunt of frustration, he tosses the shirt away from him, and the little music player goes skittering as it lands in the tub.

"Fuck!" he curses, digging his hands into his scalp and pulling savagely. He tries to tighten the lid on the feelings bubbling in him, wild and indiscernible, but he feels like a shaken bottle of pop, pressure building and building with nowhere to go. 

With a wordless, animal cry he leaps from the bathroom and towards his nightstand. In the top drawer, hidden under random shells and rocks and various souvenirs, is a tiny, shiny little blade. He has two more just like it taped to the bottom of his dresser drawer, pulled with shaking fingers from the razor Coran had provided all of them with, unaware that Lance had yet to grow into any facial hair and had no use for it. At least, no use he intended to let anyone know about.

With shaking fingers, Lance pulled at the waistband of his boxers, sliding them down on his hip until they sit around his knees. Without pause, he swipes the blade across his hip, high where the waistband rests, where there is no chance of anyone seeing, even if he is only in his underwear, even if his underwear ride up. He does not take chances. 

His first instinct is to pull away. He does not enjoy the feeling of the blade on his skin. There is no relief in the pain. Instead of pulling away, however, he runs the blade across his skin again. It doesn't need to be hard, just enough for the blood to bead up out of his skin. 

He does not move in neat lines. He moves fast and haphazardly, crossing over lines he has already made until a 2-inch-by-2-inch section of his hip is a mess of thin red lines.

At first, the blood doesn't well up, so he tugs at the skin around the cuts until the red becomes more apparent.

Relief fills him, a cool flood that pushes away the overflowing spill of hot, wired anger. He stands, wiping the blade on his black boxers, before dropping it on his bed as he heads towards the bathroom.

Lance has never liked how he looks naked, but when he finds himself in front of the mirror, he doesn't care. His eyes are drawn to the red lines on his side, and a smile climbs unbidden onto his face. It stays there, pushing at the corners of his lips until his cheeks ache. 

Above him, the bell for dinner chimes through the castle, and Lance rushes to wash his hands and pull his clothes back on. He relishes the idea of sitting there, bleeding, just out of sight. Of coming back after dinner to look at the cuts again, or even sneaking away to the bathroom just to run his fingers over the newly forming scabs. 

Just the thought of it brings another smile to his face, and when he swings out into the hallway, Hunk is there to greet him. His best friend smiles back, chatting with him idly, and all the while Lance thinks of the lines on his hip, pulling with every step.

He smiles.

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. please, please, please dont leave any critiques or concrit on this. this is entirely just... the need to put my hardships out there, somewhere, so I dont feel so,,, idk. no critiques PLEASE
> 
> 2\. if you know me irl, no you don't ❤


End file.
